


The Auror and An Old Friend

by Atwistedoutcast, urdnotshepard



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aurors, Deatheaters, F/M, Hogwarts, M/M, Murder, Obsession, Order of the Phoenix - Freeform, Psychological Horror, Psychopath, Purebloods, Stalking, Wizarding World, first wizarding war, tw: psychopath, tw: torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-11-29 06:26:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18219410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atwistedoutcast/pseuds/Atwistedoutcast, https://archiveofourown.org/users/urdnotshepard/pseuds/urdnotshepard
Summary: A lover of a wily serial killers and J.K.'s wizarding world, I couldn't resist the temptation to blend the two, especially when UrdnotShepard agreed to write the story with me. Dive into a story about obsession, vice, magic, and the fine line between good and evil. Most of what is known about the First Wizarding War is pieced together from the fragments woven into Harry Potter. See the Wizarding War from the perspective of a young death eater, Evan Rosier. A name made infamous by Igor Karkaroff when he tossed it out in a desperate bid for leniency after Voldemort's first fall. His other crowning achievement? He took Alastor Moody's nose in a duel that eventually took his life--but what drove him to challenge the man who embodied the phrase 'constant vigilance'? Who was Alastor Moody before he showed up in that trunk in Hogwarts? Good men aren't always good, and bad men aren't always bad--but their choices define them for eternity.I hope you enjoy this twist on the First Wizarding war as much as we enjoyed writing it!





	1. The Ice Cream Parlor

**Author's Note:**

> A lover of a wily serial killers and J.K.'s wizarding world, I couldn't resist the temptation to blend the two, especially when UrdnotShepard agreed to write the story with me. Dive into a story about obsession, vice, magic, and the fine line between good and evil. Most of what is known about the First Wizarding War is pieced together from the fragments woven into Harry Potter. See the Wizarding War from the perspective of a young death eater, Evan Rosier. A name made infamous by Igor Karkaroff when he tossed it out in a desperate bid for leniency after Voldemort's first fall. His other crowning achievement? He took Alastor Moody's nose in a duel that eventually took his life--but what drove him to challenge the man who embodied the phrase 'constant vigilance'? Who was Alastor Moody before he showed up in that trunk in Hogwarts? Good men aren't always good, and bad men aren't always bad--but their choices define them for eternity. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this twist on the First Wizarding war as much as we enjoyed writing it!

_**Ministry Rooftop and Adjacent Buildings - Near Midnight** _

It was the third one tonight.

He watched as the occasional slow burn would flash along the older man’s countenance and licked his lips. Apparently, there was time to brood this evening. A slow smile tugged at his lips. _Not to worry, Alastor._ _You’ll have plenty to fill your time with while you wait for the Order to decide on their next move._ He drew deeper into the shadows of the rooftop where he often sat watching the Head Auror.

It was his second favorite obsession.

Slipping deeper into the streets London, he intentionally wound his way deeper into muggle territory, until at long last he took cover and apparated into his back yard. He used his front door at the usual times. For his other…hobbies, he found it safer to draw as little attention as possible. He’d chosen the life of a boring, predictable underachiever, and then he assumed that façade.

There was only one place where the many faces he’d learned to wear over the years melted away, and he was just… _Evan._

But to the wizarding world, he was the first and only son of Tybalt Rosier. He was a pureblood with connections to the Blacks and money to spare. And perhaps most importantly (at least in his father’s eyes), he was an eligible bachelor.

A state of existence that he intended to maintain.

The last thing he needed was a woman bumbling about his orderly existence. Odds were, he’d end up having to kill her, and then there would be questions. Ultimately there was no payoff for that kind of burden.

He popped the collar of his great coat, dragging it just a little closer. The chill of autumn was finally setting in, and he was reminded of the leaves that would dance along the open corridors of Hogwarts, heralding the approach of winter, and with it the promise of Christmas.

He moved swiftly down the neatly manicured cobbles to the main patio where he began the meticulous routine of cleaning his shoes. When he was satisfied that he wouldn’t drag anything into the house he moved into the green house, and headed for the sink to wash his hands.

“Tolmi.”

“Master Evan?” The scrawny little house elf puffed into existence several steps back, his lantern gold eyes wide and unblinking as the creature peered up at him expectantly.

Evan didn’t look away from the cuticles and nails he was carefully scraping. He’d use magic to truly scour himself of course, but there was something satisfying about cleaning away the grime of his activities himself. Picking up a clean towel, he began drying his hands before finally turning around to face his house elf.

“I’d like a light repast – sandwiches and fruit would be fine.” He discarded the towel and made his way to the stairs. “I’ll be visiting my cabin in the north tomorrow evening. Make sure the pet cage has been cleaned. It was rancid this afternoon when I stopped by to check on them.”

“Tolmi be sure of it.” The house elf’s ears waved with his enthusiastic nodding.

Evan nodded and started up the stairs. “See that you do.”

Tomorrow would be a _very_ interesting day.

_**The Next Night – Around 11PM – Florean Fortescue Ice Cream Parlor** _

It had taken _months_ of surveillance to nail down the perfect time for his latest masterpiece, and half as long to identify the weaknesses in the protection spells that shielded the ice cream parlor, but it was the perfect setting. He’d chosen a central table and carefully posed the muggle couple at the table, complete with bowls of ice cream. Beneath the table was a half-blood couple that had been preaching the Dark Lord’s propaganda while living with muggles to hide from the very wizard they sang praises about.

He hated hypocrites.

That hatred was obvious in the way he’d posed them, cowering under a table instead of facing danger head on with wands raised. Their mostly naked bodies were littered with cuts, burns, and other magic inflected injuries, making it clear that he’d ‘played’ for more than a while before he’d finally delivered them to death. The muggles hadn’t really been a threat, but being the self-respecting Deatheater that he was—he’d felt obliged to deal with them. Wouldn’t do to let them wander about. There was no telling who they’d go talking to. Best to cut those threads immediately. No loose ends meant neat and tidy, just the way he liked it.

However, the piece de resistance was in the set of initials he’d carved into each person’s heel. _A. M._ It was rather like an address because he knew that Alastor would be brought in immediately. He counted on it. The wily auror wouldn’t risk one of his other aurors finding the letter he’d left tucked neatly into the breast coat pocket of the muggle’s coat.

He leaned more fully into the wall as he watched the parlor, waiting for someone to see the gruesome presentation. He knew he wouldn’t have to wait long. There was a gaggle of women that met like clockwork once a week. Then they’d make their way down to the little corner café just a block down from the ice cream parlor.

_Soon, Alastor. Soon._

( _Located in the muggle's coat pocket is the following letter. It is written on standard parchment found in any store, and the ink is equally unremarkable. It is 'clean' apart from the blood that stains it._ )


	2. Chapter 2 - Moody

_ ~*~*~ Chapter 2, Moody ~*~*~ _

 

“Tell me something Skeeter, which  part’a the words ‘No Comment’ are more difficult for  ya ?  The ‘No’ or the ‘Comment’?”

The young, up-and-coming reporter for the prophet blinked at him several times behind the rims of her rhinestone encrusted glasses.  She shifted slightly, obviously having expected to be able to charm the middle-aged Head  Auror with ease the way she did most middle-aged men.

Alastor could hear the rest of his  Aurors watching and making bets on how many wounds she’d be licking before she left.

Skeeter shifted slightly, lifting a hand to fluff her tight blonde curls before she plastered on another smile.  A smile that, to  Alastor’s eyes, looked not only fake, but rather garish with that caked on, dark red lipstick.  She sidled closer and purred, “Now Head  Auror Moody, I’m not asking for anything special here.  Just a confirmation of the  rumours floating round right now.”  She tried for a charming smile, “That’s not such a big thing is it?

Moody was currently doing a visual sweep of the area and appeared completely focused on it, though only a fool would’ve truly believed that he wasn’t paying attention to everything that was said.  Taking note of all of the people on the street and all the shops nearby, he barely even glanced in Skeeter’s direction (which was obviously annoying the blonde though she was trying to keep up the ‘oh-so-cute, c’mon give me just a little something’ expression).  

“Ah...  Auror Moody?” Skeeter asked, reaching out a hand toward him.

Frank was thankfully there before the woman’s claw-like fingernails could touch Moody’s trench coat.  He looked slightly winded from his sudden mad-dash for the pair, but his smile didn’t waver as he quickly grabbed her hand and pumped it several times, saying, “Ah, Miss Skeeter.  I hear... interesting... things about you.”  He gave her one of his smiles that somehow managed to be charming and bumbling at the same time and said, “I’ve not yet had the chance to read your book about Armando  Dippet but I hear it’s... making quite a splash.”

The rest of the  Aurors surrounding  Fortesque’s all let out collective breaths of relief at the quick intervention.  That could’ve been absolutely disastrous.  Everyone knew that you  _ never _ touched Moody.  You didn’t sneak up on him, you didn’t try to surprise him, and you  _ definitely _ never touched him unless he’d held out a hand to you first (and the number of handshakes he’d given was so small that if you did get one, it was considered a great  honour ).

Moody knew all this because very little escaped him.  He just didn’t particularly give a shit about it.   

Skeeter, on the other hand, blinked in  surprise but quickly recovered herself.  Managing a  smile she said, “Oh well... one does one’s best of course.”  She eyed the new person before her and then licked her lips and said, “ Auror ... Longbottom... wasn’t it?  You and your wife Alice are both members of the  Auror department as I understand it.”  She smiled sweetly and said, “Such an interesting job.  It must be terrifying to be brought to such gruesome scenes as this,” she fished.

Before Frank could respond (no doubt brilliantly, the boy was good),  Alastor growled, “Longbottom!  I want a perimeter of at least 50 meters around the area.  All civilians outside the line.”

He didn’t turn to watch as Frank began to escort the spluttering Skeeter away.  He knew the boy would handle it with charm and flare.  His only concern was what he already knew he’d find inside the ice cream  shoppe . The women who’d reported it had been fairly incoherent, but he’d understood the gist of it.

And he knew it was  _ him _ .  He knew without needing to see the scene or find the notes.  His  _ Old Friend _ was nothing if not distinctive after all.  Steeling himself (though no one would ever imagine he needed to given his craggy countenance never changed) he gave the area one final glance before he finally moved inside.  

The heavy scent of iron coupled with the sickly-sweet scent of sugary ice cream immediately hit him when he opened the door.  The dichotomously sweet tinkling of little bells above the door accompanied him; completely at odds with the horror of the scene he walked in on.

Brilliant blue eyes swept along the scene and instantly found the A.M. carved into one of the heels currently splayed outward.  And though his face showed not a hint of his thought processes, internally he was anything but unmoved.  As if it wasn’t bad enough to torture and maim.  The bastard did so in his name.

One hand tight around his wand (not that that was unusual, he always had a tight grip on his wand), he moved forward.  The scene was untouched, just as he’d ordered.  No one had been inside since the discovery had been made.  It was a  helluva tall order to keep people away from a group of dead bodies, but Moody’s reputation was such that no one gainsaid him either.  

Which meant that he was able to walk the scene the way that the killer had done.  He was able to look at the dead bodies with an eye that some would say was questionable to say the least.  Because he put himself into the shoes of the killer.  He saw what they saw, felt what they felt, imagined what they imagined...

It was why he was so good... but it was also why he was so extremely dangerous...

Taking a deep breath, he moved forward, careful of where he placed his feet so as not to disturb evidence, but he was already searching for one piece of evidence that he would not turn in.  Because as soon as he’d heard of the way that the victims were posed, he’d known what he’d find.  And he had no intention of letting someone like Skeeter get hold of it.

It only took a cursory glance to see the plain envelope sticking just slightly up from the muggle on the floor’s coat.  It was only the tiniest corner, easily missed... but Moody missed nothing. He’d hoped he wouldn’t find one, but he’d known that was a foolish hope. Of course, as far as Moody was concerned, all hope was foolish...

His senses on high alert for anything and everything, he moved forward.  And as he moved, he performed spell after spell to check for traps and dangers.  It was unlikely, for some reason the bastard seemed only to want to play with him, not hurt him, but letting down one’s guard,  _ especially _ with someone like this, was the height of stupidity.  And  Alastor was  _ never _ stupid.

Crouching down, he eyed the paper as though it were a bomb which, as far as he was concerned, wasn’t that far off.  He prodded it gently with his wand and quickly backed up as he did, but there were no dangerous spells or wards around it, just as he’d known that there wouldn’t be.

Finally , he pulled the letter forward... and with every word his blood ran cold.

Apparently , his  _ Old Friend _ was back.  But then, given that he’d never actually determined who the bastard was and destroyed him, he’d always known that would be the case.  It wasn’t hubris to assume that no one else could find him.  He simply knew, deep down into his bones, that in the end either he’d find and kill the bastard, or the bastard would kill him.

Some days, as he lay sleepless in bed surrounded by wards and spyglasses and tried to drink himself into a coma just to catch a few hours of rest, he wondered which eventuality he longed for more...

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he finally gave up delaying and opened the letter.  That familiar, looping script had come to be rather hated and he tended to growl at anyone who used that particular spell, not that they understood why.  

And as he read, he had to resist crumpling the paper into a tiny ball and then incinerating it.  He didn’t turn the letters in for the official case, but he always handled them as though he intended to.  Once he’d read them, he placed them under protective wards in his office, carefully labelled and organized. He simply doubted he’d ever actually turn them in should he find the bastard.   Somehow he knew, this was one pathetic death eater that would never see the inside of a court room.

Taking a slow, deep breath he finally folded the paper neatly and settled it into an inside coat pocket.  Then he went back to walking the scene before he let the others in. Because the answer to the impertinent fuck’s questions was that no, he wasn’t getting sloppy.  He wasn’t letting his nature get the better of him (whatever  _ that _  was supposed to mean, asshole).  

He was  Alastor Moody.  And one way or another, he  _ would _  find this bastard and make certain that no more people wound up like this again.


	3. Chapter 3: Evan

"Mr. Rosier, are jou listening to me?” The officious little auror that had arrived via floo network for their ten o’clock appoint was glowering pointedly over a broom-like mustache and beak-like nose as he waited for the obvious answer. 

Evan was doing a lot of things just then—not all of which would be considered ‘acceptable’ but surviving one of the more banal jobs to be found within the MLE department required additional coping mechanisms, and he’d been working on his since childhood. Just then, he was imagining shaving the horrible swath of hair from the man’s thin upper lip and setting it on fire. It wasn’t even well manicured! Why bothering having facial hair if one wasn’t going to take the time to manage its upkeep? 

However, he rather doubted the Auror or his superior would appreciate the sentiment, and he did have an image to maintain. He feigned a yawn and sat forward. “Of course I am. You said...” He glanced down at his notes, which were spartan to say the least, and began to rattle off the details. “You are here looking for permission to pursue one...” he eyed the name and then glanced back at the auror, “Ferdinand Orsino Dulac. You believe he has taken shelter here.” He identified a few more key pieces in his typical neutral tone. He never bothered to get angry or irritable with the Aurors. Feigning emotions took a great deal of effort and considerable thought, and many situations simply weren’t worth the potential trouble if he guessed the emotions wrong. 

So instead he came across as bland and utterly boring. People wrote him off as a rich pureblood with no personality. There were some things even money couldn’t buy after all. It worked for him. 

He shuffled through the neat pile of files on his desk and withdrew the one he wanted and with a flick of his wand, the paper went floating across the desk to hover before the man. “You’ll need to fill that form out. Once you’ve completed that, I can escort you down to the auror’s division where you’ll need the head auror to sign off. International cooperation insists that each department head have the opportunity to vet the prospective alliance.” 

His voice remained flat, his emerald green eyes almost glazed with boredom, but inside his gut was coiling with excitement. These little chance encounters were some of his favorites. To be standing in the man’s office—to look him in the eye and exchange information, all the while knowing that somewhere in that office was a stash of files for ‘Old Friend’ was enough to make him glad he opted for the longer business jacket. It was better at camouflaging things. 

“Jou canno’ be serious! I ‘ave many things to be dealing wis. I canno’ sit around ‘ere an wait--” 

Evan held up a hand, cutting him off mid sentence. “I understand your frustration.” He said (the monotone killing any possible ‘empathy’ someone else might have conveyed) lowering his hand. “However, rules are rules for a reason Auror Tulange. If I break them for you, I’d have to break them for everyone.” He pasted on a smile that was almost unnerving when compared to his normal austere expression as he added, “It shouldn’t take long to fill out the form, and then we can head over to Auror Moody’s office.” 

It was clear that Tulange was not convinced, but Evan also didn’t give him a choice to argue further. Instead he showed him to a small conference room, put the form on the table beside a quill and pot of ink before retreating back to his desk. 

He took a few moments to organize a file for the aurors that had all of the information pertinent to the visiting Auror’s case. He was boring, but he was good at his job. It was the reason they kept him despite his lack of people skills. Then he moved on with his normal efficiency, coordinating a number of other cases (and if he slid one off to the side for further review, well he’d have it back before anyone noticed). 

When the auror emerged from the conference room, he stood and rounded the desk, file in hand. He took the form, tucking it on the top of the file, and then said, “This way.” 

He didn’t bother with small talk as they traversed the winding hallways to the Auror department, and though a number of people smiled and greeted him, he barely did more than a perfunctory nod of acknowledgement (if he bothered with that). When they reached the Auror department, he slowed down slightly, mainly because he was taking advantage of the opportunity to spy on the department. More than a few of his favorite pets had come straight from the desks they were passing after all. 

When he reached the head auror’s office, he stopped outside the doorway and knocked lightly, “Mr. Moody?” He called out. He was always courteous and polite, especially with the aurors. They tended to be more suspicious of him than most. He suspected that had to do with the whole ‘sensing danger’ thing that so many aurors experienced. He poked his head in the door, to peer around, but there was no sign of Moody. 

Barely containing the excitement racing through his veins, he lead the way into the head auror’s office, gesturing to a chair even as he moved to settle in the other free one. His attention was everywhere. The book shelf with the little bottle of scotch tucked behind a fallen pile of scrolls. The wastebasket filled with crumpled sheets of paper. The worn sofa with obvious dents made from the same body sleeping in the same spot more than was considered healthy. One could almost imagine you have a lot on your mind Alastor... 

He drew in a slow deep breath, nostrils flaring a little wider as he basked in the scent of cigarettes, alcohol, and body sweat. There were other hints of florals and masculine colognes, no doubt from his many visitors, but Evan knew them for the imposters they were. Moody didn’t care if people liked the way he looked or smelled. He suspected Moody was content with his bar of soap and laundered clothing. More than that was likely too much of an effort. He didn’t agree of course, but he could appreciate the careless trait in the auror. 

“Exactly ‘ow long are we suppose to jus’ sit ‘ere?” The auror demanded irritably. 

Evan glanced at him, one dark brow vaulting upward faintly, “Until he arrives I’d imagine. We did not have an appointment after all, and Mr. Moody is a very busy man. I’m sure you understand.” It was clear that the auror did ‘not’ understand, but Evan had phrased it in such a way that he wasn’t going to press the issue either. 

Stifling a smirk, Evan began to rifle through the file, pointedly ignoring the man as he continued to study the desk in front of them surreptitiously.


End file.
